


Shall We Dance?

by Boton



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bromance, Dancing, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, Gen, Humor, Missing Scene, No Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-15
Updated: 2015-01-15
Packaged: 2018-03-07 15:31:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3176828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boton/pseuds/Boton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wedding planning emergency.  Baker Street, immediately. –SH</p><p>On my way.  –JW</p><p>What really happened when Sherlock tried to teach John to waltz for his wedding?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shall We Dance?

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and his universe are the creation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Sherlock is the creation of the BBC and its partners, and of co-creators Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. This work is for my pleasure and that of my readers; I am not profiting from the intellectual property of those creators listed above.
> 
> Author's Note: OK, I'm in a silly mood, and this is the result. It's a no-slash, all silliness story of what might have happened behind the closed curtains when Sherlock taught John to waltz.

_Wedding planning emergency. Baker Street, immediately. –SH_

_On my way. –JW_

Forty-five minutes later, John was stepping out of a black cab in front of 221, running a hand through his still-damp, freshly-showered hair as Sherlock buzzed him up to the flat.

“What’s wrong?” John said without preamble. “Minister back out on us? Church double booked? I’ll bet it’s the baker; he looked a little uncertain when we ordered the cake, and you know Mary has her heart set on buttercream frosting….”

“It’s your waltz,” Sherlock said, cutting through John’s rambling.

“I’m sorry; my what?” John asked, blinking in confusion.

“Your waltz. Your first dance with Mary will be a waltz, and she tells me you don’t know how. We must rectify this immediately.”

“Wait, why do you think our first dance is a waltz? Mary and I haven’t even discussed this,” John asked.

“Trust me,” Sherlock said, in a tone that allowed no dispute. “Your first dance is a waltz.”

“OK, groom is always the last to know, I guess,” John said. “But regardless, I was pretty much planning on putting my arms around my new wife and swaying around a little and hoping I don’t die of embarrassment before the song is over. I don’t need to learn a waltz.”

“John, do try to keep up. Your first dance is a waltz; therefore, you will be learning to waltz,” Sherlock said as he bounced up and down on the balls of his feet, dressing gown billowing slightly behind him with every movement.

“Right now?” John asked. “Don’t I kind of need Mary here for this?”

“Certainly not; Mary already knows how,” Sherlock said. “Therefore, I will be teaching you.”

John said nothing but tilted his head slightly in Sherlock’s direction, looking like he knew a bad idea when he heard one. 

Sherlock was already pushing furniture out of the way, moving his chair and pushing the coffee table back against the sofa to make whatever additional room he could in the small lounge. Having made the preparations, he walked over to face John and said the words John sincerely hoped were part of some bizarre waking dream or auditory hallucination or strange latent tropical disease – anything but reality.

“Now, take me in your arms and pretend I’m Mary.”

“I’m sorry, what?” John said, hoping once again for sudden onset of a terminal condition, preferably one that would end this surreal situation sooner rather than later.

“John,” said Sherlock in his best no-nonsense tone. “Male dance instructors have always been able to dance both the lead and follow for teaching purposes. Today, I am acting as your dance instructor. So do grow up and take me in hold.”

Sherlock again approached John, who had been backing slowly away until he was nearing the window. He took John’s left hand in his right, and said, “Now, take your right hand and place it around me on my shoulder blade,” coaxing John into something that resembled a dance hold if one didn’t look too closely or judge too strictly.

John began blinking even more rapidly as he struggled to get comfortable with the position, his eyes darting all over the flat to avoid looking at Sherlock as he fidgeted with his hands to try to put them in the correct place.

“John,” Sherlock said neutrally. “That’s not my shoulder blade, and I don’t think Mary’s shoulder blade will be there either.”

John ripped his hand from where it had landed on Sherlock’s hip as if it had caught on fire. He suddenly realized that he was standing in the window of 221B with his best man and former flatmate in his arms. He broke hold immediately.

“Jesus, Sherlock,” he swore, grabbing fistfuls of curtain with both hands and pulling them shut, then running to the other window to do the same. “Will you never care what they say about us in the papers?”

“Well, you are getting married,” Sherlock said, amused. “I should think that should do something to quell the rumors.”

“With my luck,” John said ruefully, “it will only make them say that Mary is my beard.”

“Your beard?” Sherlock asked, confused. “How did we get to talking about facial hair? Regardless, I advise against it. If the mustache aged you, I can’t imagine what a beard would do. And you already look older than Mary,” Sherlock mused.

“No, Sherlock, a ‘beard,’” John started, then thought better of it. “Nevermind. If we’re going to do this, let’s do it.”

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock had succeeded in teaching John the basic waltz box, which he was executing mechanically. 

“John, try to look like you’re enjoying yourself more,” Sherlock coached. “This is your new wife you are holding in your arms.”

“No,” John said, “at the moment, I’m holding a very tall – and, might I add, very stinky – consulting detective in my arms who looks nothing like my wife. Jeez, Sherlock, you could have at least showered first.”

Sherlock put on his best hurt face. “I called you over here the minute I realized we had omitted such an important part of your wedding preparation. Would you have preferred that I delay it while I showered?”

“Well, frankly, yes, given that our height difference means that my nose is rather closer to your armpit than I would like.” John said. “And maybe then you also wouldn’t still be wearing your pajamas and slippers.” Sherlock wondered if John had chosen to emphasize his point by stepping firmly on Sherlock’s slipper-clad foot at that very moment, but he declined to ask, shaking off the pain of trod-upon toes.

“Details,” Sherlock dismissed the subject as the pair danced plodding box steps up and down the length of 221B’s lounge. “Now, you’re doing fine, but you want to lead a little more assertively. Mary will need to know exactly where you’re going and how you want her to respond, so try to be a little more in command.”

“I’ll try,” John said with a look of intense concentration as he took a powerful step forward, leading Sherlock to step backward with a jolt, running into the mantelpiece with his back. The impact was enough to shake the Cluedo board and the knife holding it free from the wall, and they clattered to the ground. Sherlock blinked back a few tears of pain as he experimentally flexed his shoulders. “Good,” he choked. “But maybe there’s a middle ground to be had between too tentative and too assertive.”

Some forty-five minutes into the lesson, the pair was perspiring freely, John having forgotten the awkwardness and finally growing comfortable with the limited number of steps he now knew. Sherlock decided to conclude the lesson by teaching John how to dip his partner.

“Mary will love this,” Sherlock said as John experimentally dipped him toward the floor. It wasn’t the best position; Sherlock had let John bear a little too much of his weight at an uncomfortable angle, but John was strong and Mary was much lighter than Sherlock and they would only be in a dip for a few seconds, Sherlock mused.

“Yoo-hoo, boys!” Mrs. Hudson called as she walked into the room carrying a teapot and cups on a tray. John looked up with a start and opened his arms. Sherlock crashed to the floor, catching himself rather painfully on his elbow.

“Mrs. Hudson. Wha—what are you doing here?” John asked.

“I could ask you the same,” Mrs. Hudson said, surveying the situation. Sherlock was still lying on the floor gripping his elbow, dressing gown askew and tshirt damp with perspiration. 

“No, it’s not what you think. I need to get ready for my wedding, and Sherlock knew I didn’t know how, and he offered to teach me so I’d be ready for Mary,” John stammered. 

“Well, I don’t want to tell you boys what to do, but I don’t think it’s going to be quite the same,” Mrs. Hudson said. “But live and let live, that’s my motto!” She turned and walked from the room after setting down the tea tray. 

An hour after the lesson began, Sherlock and John sat on the sofa with their tea. Sherlock wriggled gingerly as he tried to find a comfortable position for his back, clutching an ice pack to his elbow. John sat in a posture of resignation beside him.

“It’s hopeless,” John said.

“No, you did quite well,” Sherlock countered. “But maybe you could practice your steps by yourself for a bit before the wedding.”

“That might be better,” John admitted, looking sideways at his best man.

“And you could still use that shower,” he added. There was a beat of silence, and then the two collapsed in laughter.


End file.
